


spider-who

by carefulren



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Concussions, Gen, Sickfic, Whump, Whumpfic, aka the distraction from GA senate races fic, basically none of the Avengers know that Peter's Spider-Man, bc i like the hidden au thing, i think i'll just add to this when i write chapters in this AU, kind of just want to vibe with this slight au for a while, oop i'm adding to this, slight AU, we're trying to get out of this four-year mess, ya'll send a prayer for the US
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28586082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: Peter's beginning to learn, very quickly, that New York is a lot smaller than it looks.(aka: the one where the Avengers don't know Spider-Man is Peter Parker, and Peter's struggling to keep it that way because he keeps ending up in crappy situations)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 86





	1. one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one where Peter falls from a building and struggles to explain why he's okay and not dead from a very curious Tony Stark and Steve Rogers.

“Young man? Young man, are you alright?” 

Grunting, Peter drags his head away from the insistent tapping against his cheek, an almost rhythmic, steady pressure that jerks up his temple to spread across his forehead. The pressure isolates to the base of his skull, where the pounding seems to be at it’s worst, and it holds ground there, pulsing uncomfortably. 

“Young man, you fell from a four-story apartment building.” 

Peter’s brows furrow at this. He wants to object because he’s Spider-Man, and a fall like that is minor compared to the novel of inuries he’s suffered alongside the Avengers. He opens his mouth to do just that, to explain to this woman that this is nothing, that he’ll walk it off, but a pricking senstation hot against the back of his neck hotwires to his eyelids, forcing them open. 

He’s aware of two things: One, the woman leaning over him is far too close, and she’s doubling and tripling before him, going in out of focus against his blurry eyes. Despite hazy around the edges, she looks concerned, if the deep-set wrinkles etched into her forehead are anything to go by. Two, there’s a small crowd surrounding him, and while Peter’s not particularly claustrophobic, right now, it feels like each body is pushing against his lungs, and his stomach. When the hell did he start feeling so nauseous? 

“Young man, do you know what day it is?” 

No, Peter thinks flatly to himself. He really doesn’t. He could dig through his mind, eager to push out logic, work through his mental calendar that operates soley around when homework assignments are due, but there’s a solid rock of pulsing pain blocking all normal, brain functioning. “Monday?” he tries weakly. He’s faintly aware that his own voice sounds hollow and distant, but more so, he’s distinctly aware of the saliva pooling in his mouth, a copper taste that coats against his tongue. 

Peter didn’t think it was possible, but the woman somehow frowns deeper at him, and she climbs to her feet, body rigid. He supposes it’s not Monday after all. 

“Call an ambulance! He’s concussed.” 

Peter shoots forward into a sitting position, and the pain in his head bursts like a balloon. The redistributed pressure is blinding, and Peter drops his face into his cupped hands with a low groan that threatens to bring more than just air up his throat. 

He wants to assure them that a hospital isn’t necessary, that his enhanced healing defies medical science, but when the white light coating his vision dies down to an unsteady sway of darker, blurring colors, he only sees scraped up palms before him, not gloves. He rips his hands away, and one, quick look down shows that he’s sporting a blue NASA hoodie and blue jeans and that he’s definitely not wearing his signature red and blue Spider-Man suit he thought he had on. 

The hell? 

He glances to see his backpack beside him, thankfully still zipped up and intact. He tries to wrack his brain, briefly craning his neck up toward the rooftop he assumes he fell from, only to quickly jerk his gaze back down when the setting sun seems to shine past his eyes to burn at his skull. He can’t remember why he was up there in the first place, especially since he’s in civilian clothing. He can’t remember much of anything, now that he dwells on it. 

“Young man, by all accounts, you should be dead.” 

Peter makes to reply, his clenched jaw unhinging almost painfully, but a different, probing jolt sparks up his spine to the back of his neck, and he’s climbing to his feet, pale, wobbly, just as two, new voices somehow carry over the wall of chatter around him. 

“What’s going on?”

“Make way. Crowds typically mean one of two things: some weird alien contraption that equals bad news or a dead body, either of which I can’t really fit into today’s schedule.”

Even if Peter didn’t have the two voices memorized, down to the timbre, the sudden, loud squealing from the crowd of “Tony Stark!” and “Captain America!” is enough to have him eyeing for a quick exit, determining if he can duck his way through the pressing bodies. 

“This young man fell from the roof!” 

“So,” Tony draws out, his voice growing closer. “Dead body it...” He trails off as he nudges around a few people until he’s breaking into the center of the circle with Steve hot on his heels. 

“Well, hello there, not dead person.” 

Peter wants to shrink away from Tony’s gaze. He wants the ground to crumble and break and swallow him hole, to rid himself of the awkward fear and warm embarrasment that flushes his cheeks. He can feel a thick, lukewarm liquid dripping down his neck, and he doesn’t want to look down to see the concerning pool of blood at his feet. 

“Son, are you alright?” Steve shoves forward, and on instinct, Peter backs away and brings a hand to the back of his neck, a nervous tick, but he pulls it back almost immediately, faintly frowning at the splattered red coloring his palm. 

“You fell,” Tony starts, and Peter knows this tone well as it’s Tony’s signature speculation tone, where he dissects the situation around clipped, short sentences. 

“From up there?” 

Leveling his gaze, Peter huffs out a shaky sigh, wincing slightly as Steve prods lightly at the back of his head. 

“Um, yeah. I guess?” 

“You guess?” 

“I don’t really remember,” Peter laughs awkwardly, clears his throat. He can sense the tension that builds behind him, can almost feel the way Steve’s muslces grow rigid. 

“He’s concussed, Tony. Maybe save the interrogation for another time?” 

“Sure,” Tony says, and he steps forward, carefully avoiding the puddle of blood. “But, you can’t blame me for finding this entire situation unsettling, Steve. This kid fell from the roof of a four-story building, landed on his back, and now he’s standing, and aside from the fact that he looks a tad worse for wear, he’s alive?” 

“I’m right here,” Peter mutters under his breath, and Tony nods and crowds too close to him. 

“You are. Standing. Speaking. Alive. Three things that don’t exactly pair well with falling off a roof.” 

Peter’s head hurts, bad. Deflect, he thinks. But how? “I’ve always been told I come from a family of hard heads,” he mumbles around a hollow laugh, and, he thinks, it definitely sounds as stupid out loud as it did in his head. 

Tony’s gaze, in response, his sharp, and narrow, and Peter unconsciously closes his eyes. He can feel the ground rippling below his feet, and he sways, steadying only when Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

“Enough, Tony.” 

“How much would it take to get you to come back to our labs so I can run some tests-”

“- _Enough, Tony._ ”

Steve’s voice vibrates all across Peter’s body. It’s a powerful yet familiar feeling that makes him shudder slightly. 

“What’s your name, son?” 

Peter contemplates lying, maybe even using Ned’s name. But, he’s been careful as Spider-Man thus far, so, he thinks, he’s not at risk by sharing his real name. Besides, it’s not like it’s uncommon. “Peter,” he says after a moment. 

He could hear Steve talking beside him, but an unannounced rush of blood in his ears begisn to drown out close sounds. He grows hot suddenly, or maybe, he’s been getting steadily hotter this entire time and he couldn’t fully realize. His body’s shaking a little harder now, inconsistent trembles jerking his limbs. His throat’s tightening, and when he realizes what the hell is happening, he’s shoving away from Steve and hunching over to vomit. 

He feels worse when he finishes. He’s exhausted, and his head is positively throbbing. Yet, there’s a color of clarity flicking across his mind. Through the thick pain, he can think a little clearer, see a little clearer. 

“Peter?” 

“Gross, kid. Time to go to the hospital.” 

“No!” Peter whips around, staggers, and unconsciously reaches out to Steve’s arm for support. “I mean, that’s not necessary,” he clarifies at the two, wide expressions looking at him expectantly. “Really. I’m already feeling better.” To punctuate his point, he lets go of Steve’s arm and bends down to snag his backpack, clutching it close to his chest. “See, totally fine. No passing out or anything.” 

On the back of his head, he can already feel his broken skin moving, closing torn gaps, slowing the bloodflow. He figures he’s got about an hour until it’s completely healed, and he’d rather not be around two Avengers when it happens. 

“I’ll just go home and... rest! I’ll rest. Scout’s honor.” He mock salutes, and then he spins on his heel and starts pushing his way out of the crowd, missing the furrowed gaze from Tony. He swallows thickly when he hears two sets of heavy footsteps behind him. 

“Peter, wait!”

“I’m with Steve on this one, kid. I can’t, in good conscience, let you disappear in this condition. I can see the headlines now. Iron Man Abandons Helpless Teen.” 

“Tony...”

Peter keeps walking ahead, keeps his gaze locked to the sidewalk below him as Tony and Steve take either side of him. “My apartment’s just a few blocks from here,” he mumbles, focusing on the rhythmic pound of his shoes on concrete and not on the hot pain pushing all across his head or on the fact that he can’t shake a couple of Avengers, something he’d never consider as Spider-Man. 

“Do you not like hospitals, Peter?” 

Steve’s question is a gentle prod, and Peter goes with it, shrugging. 

“Not really,” he offers, keeping his voice low, indicating he doesn’t want to pursue the conversation, and luckily, Steve takes the bait and drops it. At least, Peter thinks, they’ll stop insisting he seek out medical assistance now. Though, he does feel a little bad lying to Steve; he doesn’t like lying, unless it’s to egg on Tony’s nerves as Spider-Man. But to Steve? It feels morally wrong, and he thinks he should seek out a confessional for his sins later. 

“Not interested in having a bunch of doctors deem you a medical miracle?” 

“Definitely not,” Peter groans, finally dragging his gaze up until he’s looking forward and not at the scuff marks on his shoes. His memories, though fuzzy, are filtering through cracks in the thick mud that’s currently his mind. He can remember standing atop the roof, maybe a little too close to the edge. He was getting ready to rip open his backpack for his suit, and then he remembers losing his footing. He remembers the back of his foot hitting the edge of the roof, and everything goes dark after that. 

Embarrassing, he thinks. He’s the only super hero he knows clumsier than a newborn deer. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize he’s reached his apartment until his leg muscles are dragging to a stop on habit. He looks up, craning his neck, and sighs. “Well, this is me. I appreciate the escort, but I’m good now.” He starts up the steps, sighing louder when he hears the two follow. 

He makes it all the way up the steps to his apartment door and unlocks it before he spins on his heel, a second, longer sigh pushing past his lips. “Look, I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but don’t you both have... bigger things to do? Iron Man and Captain America things?” 

“You busy, Steve?” Tony asks, and Steve mutely shakes his head before following Tony into the apartment. 

Groaning, Peter rubs at his forehead and shuffles inside, knowing full and well that both are incredibly busy on an hour-to-hour basis. He’s quick to slip his bacpack into his bedroom and close the door before he steps back out into the living room to see Steve motioning toward the couch with a pack of frozen peas in hand. 

“It’s all you had.” 

Shrugging, Peter drops down flat onto the couch, sitting up briefly so Steve can slip the bag of frozen peas behind his head. He shivers on contact because shit, it’s freezing, and Steve’s reaching over him to snag the blanket draped behind the couch. He hums absently when Steve tucks it around him, and then he cracks an eye open to see Tony staring down childhood pictures with a familair set of glasses on. 

“Mr. Stark?” 

“Huh?” Tony whips around, already plucking the glasses from his face. 

“Really, Tony? How much info is FRIDAY feeding you right now?” 

“What?” Tony drags out, both hands raised in defense. “Kid fell off a roof and walked away. Sue me.” 

“I promise, Mr. Stark, I’m not even remotely interesting,” Peter tries, and Tony raises a single brow his way. 

“I’ll be the judge of that.” 

Peter’s kept his identity tightly under wraps thus far, and he knows childhood pictures or pictures with May aren’t going to reveal that he’s Spider-Man. Still, it’s annoyingly intrusive, and he sits up with a groan. 

“If I swear on my best friend’s lego model death star that I’ll stay put, rest, and wake up every few hours to monitor my condition, will you both please leave? You really don’t need to hang around here; I know you both have to be really busy.” 

“Your best friend has a lego model death star?” Tony starts, isolating that one fact. “Is your best friend in second grade?” 

Peter clambers to his feet, stalks over to his door, and yanks it open. “We’re the same age, and I _happily_ helped him with it,” he challenges, motioning toward the doorway. 

“Easy, champ,” Tony says around a laugh as he and Steve start toward the door. “If you and your friend want to play with legos, that’s none of my business. Just try not to fall off any more roofs because, unfortunately, that is my business.” 

“Yes, sir,” Peter says, offering a nod as the two step out. 

“Consider going to a hospital, Peter,” Steve adds. “Maybe take your friend with you for comfort.” 

Yeah right, Peter thinks. Ned can’t even handle the thought of a needle without feeling faint. Still, he nods, if only to appease Steve, and then he’s closing the door and sinking against it with a low sigh. He listens for a long time until he can no longer make out their footsteps, and then he’s ignoring the pressure in his head and running to his room to don his suit. 

Concussion or not, Queens still needs the friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one where Peter's sick, Bucky has poor taste in food, and Sam and Bucky fear Steve's wrath if they leave a kid passed out on the sidewalk

“Go get some rest, Spider-Brat.” 

Peter cocks his head to the side, watching as Sam drops down to the rooftop he was about to web off of. “Hey, I wasn’t too much of a brat today.”

_“You made a bet with a bank robber that he wouldn’t punch Stark, and he punched Stark.”_

Sam tilts his head at Steve’s voice in the comms, brows rising, and Peter shrugs. “I didn’t think he would actually do it,” he tries sheepishly.

_“Me either, kid.”_

Peter winces at Tony’s voice, and Sam laughs before him, walking forward to clap him on the shoulder.

“Maybe you should send flowers?” 

“Maybe,” Peter parrots back, the word catching in his throat. He turns away from Sam to cough, and Sam’s hand tightens just a fraction. 

“Like I said, kid. Get some rest. Maybe try not coming out when you’re sick next time?” 

“And miss all of this?” Peter tries lightly around grating coughs. “I could never.” He captures his breath, sucking in cold New York air through the filter in his mask, and Sam rolls his eyes and slips toward the edge of the roof. 

“Whatever you say, brat. I’m not saving your ass, though, if you pass out in battle.” 

Sam offers a final wave then hops off the building, the wings of his suit spreading wide and loud, carrying him in a smooth, downward glide that Peter watches with muted envy until the mere act of looking down enhances the blur edging his vision. He shakes his head, blinking against his mask. Now that his adrenaline’s waning, he has time to take stock of how he’s feeling, which, he quickly finds, is nothing short of terrible.

His head feels as if Thor took his hammer to it... repeatedly, and he can physically feel every single inch of his skin. Everything’s too hot but also too cold. He shivers, which he finds particularly annoying considering his neck is slick with sweat that his suit clings to uncomfortably.

He’s itching to spill out curses, but he’s not sure who’s still listening on the comms, and his head cannot handle a Steve Rogers lecture right now. He bites it back, swallows down his tired frustration, and leaps off the building, webbing away from the scene, a little clumiser than usual, until he’s dropping down into an abandoned alley where his backpack’s tucked up against a dumpster.

He’s quick to slip out of his suit and back into civilian clothing, shoving his suit deep down into his backpack before hs shoulders it with a shudder. He drags the hood of his jacket over his head with a shaky sigh. It’s getting dark, and as much as he wants to catch a bus back home, he promised May he’d pick up some milk and eggs.

He ducks into a nearby convenience store, coughing into his fist and offering a half-wave to the cashier behind the counter. He’s quick on his feet as he slips around to the back of the store, but before he can pull a freezer door open to snag a half gallon of milk, his lungs tighten, and he turns to cough harsh and deep into the crook of his arm until his chest hurts.

“Woah, kid. You okay?” 

The hand that falls to Peter’s back is as familiar as the voice, and he steps back, shaking his head and still coughing as he eyes Sam, dressed casually, with Bucky walking up beside him. With how big this stupid city is, Peter thinks, it can, very quickly, feel annoyingly small.

“How come you didn’t go back to the Tower?” he asks, only realizing the full extent of what he just said when Bucky frowns sharply at him. 

“What?” 

“I just mean,” Peter starts, sweating underneath his jacket, “the robbery was on the news,” he mutters, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat. “We all saw it- figured you’d be tired after...” 

Sam’s mouth falls into a soft ‘oh’ shape before it gives way to a smile, and he claps Bucky on the back. “This guy here wanted some fine cuisine,” he says, waving a package of pre-made sushi about that Peter wrinkles his nose at.

“It’s good,” Bucky defends flatly, snagging the sushi and stepping around the two.

Peter watches him go, a few weak coughs slipping past his lips. His heart’s still flying in his chest, threatening to burst past his rib cage, and then Sam’s clearing his throat, and Peter whips back around, mutely grabbing at his head.

“Kid?”

“Huh?” Peter blinks away the fuzziness chasing his vision. 

“You look like you’re about to pass out.” 

“I’m fine,” Peter answers quickly, the words practically trained on his tongue. He turns to grab some milk and a carton of eggs from the freezer, hissing at the chill that briefly brushes past him. “Just a cold,” he adds, sniffling. 

“If you say so,” Sam says, clapping his shoulder. “Take care of yourself.” 

Nodding, Peter keeps his eyes cast down as Sam leaves, and he waits until he hears the small ding of the entrance and exit bell before he shuffles over to the counter, mindlessly moving through motions: wallet from pocket, card to cashier, card back, wallet back, bag in hand, fan face...

He steps out of the store, his face positively burning. He waves his hand before it, trying to cool it down, but it’s so hot that it’s almost suffocating. He tugs at his collar, welcoming the cool air against his neck.

He shouldn’t be this hot; he knows this isn’t normal. He should get home, take some medicine, burrow in bed until his fever breaks, but after one step, the heat becomes too much, and the last thing he hears is his milk jug thunking against the ground.

He comes to slowly. There’s a warm hand patting his cheek- that’s the first thing his mind can focus on. The touch is light yet persistent, and it’s much warmer than the rest of his body. He’s lying on something cold and hard, and he’s shaking a little. The muffle in his ears begins to clear until he can hear sounds around the ringing: cars, footsteps, a voice far too close to his face.

“Hey, you with us?” 

Opening his eyes, Peter’s vision is suddenly filled with Sam’s worried face. He flicks a quick gaze to see Bucky standing just behind Sam, worry evident in his eyes.

On instinct, Peter rasps out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m fine.”

“Come on, man,” Sam starts, helping Peter up slowly into a sitting position. “You’re far from fine.” 

Peter opens his mouth to reply, but then Bucky’s crouching down in front of him, eyes narrow.

“Why’d you lie?” 

“I...” Peter leans forward, running a hand through his hair. He takes stock of his surroundings, finding that he’s embarassed to see he didn’t make it two steps from the convenience store before he fainted. “Sorry. Habit I guess.” 

“You have a habit of lying about how you’re really feeling?” Bucky cocks his head to the side, and Sam scoffs, laughing small under his breath as he smooths the back of his hand to Peter’s cheek. 

“Kid, we know one too many people who do that, and it almost never ends well.” Sam pulls his hand back. “You’re burning up, by the way, but I guess you know that.” He’s careful to help Peter to his feet, and Peter sways, his head struggling to wrap around the fact that his muscles are being used. 

“Easy,” Sam says lowly. “What’s your name, kid?” 

“Peter,” Peter mutters, swallowing around a hollow cough. He unconsciously leans into Sam’s chest, but his muscles tense when Bucky stares hard at his answer. 

“Peter,” Bucky tries the name in his mouth, working it around his jaw, brows furrowed. “Aren’t you the kid that fell off the roof a few weeks back?” 

“Oh, yeah!” Sam nods quickly. “The one Steve and Tony were talking about.” 

Peter’s heart’s fluttering in his chest, and he quickly shakes his head, regretting it the second pain blooms hard across his temples. He brings a hand to his head with a groan, and Sam claps the back of his neck.

“Easy. We must be thinking of a different kid.”

“I don’t think we are,” Bucky says, and Sam fires a glare of a gaze his way, mouthing ‘shut up.’

“I’m sorry,” Peter tries, stepping away from Sam. “For bothering you both.” He spares a brief, somber glance to the spilled milk still faintly pooling from the brown store bag. He should buy more, but he’s not sure how long he’ll be standing this time. May will understand, he thinks. “I should go.” He makes to gather his ruined groceries, stopping when an alarmingly cold and metal hand wraps around his arm. 

“Hang tight. We’ll take you home.” 

Peter wants to argue, but Bucky’s pulling him to a nearby bench, and Sam’s walking back into the store. Peter watches numbly, his head throbbing too hard, as Bucky picks up the milk carton and most likely broken eggs. But when his vision begins to tunnel, he finds that he’s focusing more on the gray dots dancing across his eyes, and he only comes back to the present when Bucky drapes a jacket over his shoulders.

“You’re shaking.” 

Peter jerks through a nod, slipping his arms into the large sleeves. “Thanks.”

Bucky only grunts in response, and moments later, Sam’s walking back toward them with a new bag in hand. “You live far from here?”

Peter shakes his head, allowing Bucky to help him to his feet. “It’s just a few blocks from here.”

“Can you walk?” Bucky questions, and Peter takes a few steps unassisted. He’s a little unsteady, faintly light-headed, but he doesn’t topple over, so he nods slowly, and he starts walking, sandwiched between Sam and Bucky. 

It’s weird, Peter thinks, coughing into his fist. And if his head weren’t clouded over in dull, aching pain, he’d find the time to be alarmed that he, as Peter Parker and not as Spider-Man, is once again trapped in the presence of Avengers.

Sam and Bucky fill the silence with rapid back and forth banter throughout the ten minute walk, and Peter’s steps almost falter when they mention Spider-Man.

“You think he made it home okay? He sounded like shit today.” 

Peter masks his faint gasp with a harsh cough that has Sam patting his back.

“Kid’s pretty strong. He’s probably fine.” 

Peter crosses his arms, Bucky’s jacket practically swallowing his frame. Sam and Bucky’s words fade in and out against his ears. He’s so careful with his alter hero; every decision he makes is calculated. Still, he’s scared of being discovered; he doesn’t want the others to look down on him.

“Earth to Peter?” 

Peter shakes his head, frowning. They’re stopped outside of his apartment building.

“You good?”

Peter has to swallow back the urge to say “yes,” instead saying “I will be.” He makes to slip out of the jacket, but Bucky stops his with a raised hand.

“Keep it.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, accepting the bag from Sam. “Thank you both. Really. You didn’t have to do all this.” 

“Steve would have both of our heads if he found out we left you passed out on the sidewalk,” Sam laughs, leaning forward to touch Peter’s forehead again. “Now get your ass in there, and rest, got it?” 

“Yes, sir,” Peter nods, and Sam puffs out his chest. 

“Hear that, Bucky? ‘Sir?’ Has a nice ring to it, right?” 

“I hate you,” Bucky mutters, and Peter climbs the steps up to his apartment building with a smile as Sam’s laughing fades into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi or drop a prompt off on tumblr :) (@toosicktoocare)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading a lot of fics recently where Peter's identity is still hidden to the Avengers, so I really want to vibe with this kind of, slight AU.


End file.
